


Confession

by violetnyte



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Drabble, Hate Sex, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, M/M, What are feelings?, fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Eli's prompt, "Cain tells Abel he loves him without it being fluffy or sweet or OOC… sort of where he’s still Cain, and Cain’s a dick." This is just the little short 'fic I wrote based on that and posted to my tumblr. Reposting it here for archive-ness sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



They’re fighting again, voices raised past the point of yelling and into screeching. He’s shrill with fury, inept with it, with only a pillow to hurl as a weapon against the glowering fighter backed against the dresser.

“You’re such an asshole!” Abel yells. It’s a stupid thing they’re fighting over, because everything turns into a fight these days. Tensions run higher and higher, taunt like piano strings, the closer they get to Colteron territory. Maybe he’s scared, maybe he’s sick of feeling scared, and maybe Cain’s reached a breaking point as well.

Cain dodges the pillow just as deftly as a ‘Teron blaster. Except it’s just a pillow, fluff and feather, harmless. The tight line of his brow is a sharp V over dark, colonial-set eyes. It’s an expression Abel ought to be wary of, but he’s too angry for that. For once he’s got Cain on the run, and it’s an advantage he wants to exploit.

“What’s the matter, princess?” Cain sneers, full of blustering arrogance like always. “Got your panties in a twist because yours isn’t the only dick I’m sucking?”

And Abel’s all the more furious for the casual way he throws it out there. He wants to believe it’s a lie, that Cain really isn’t fucking Deimos despite all the evidence to the contrary. The bruise against his neck could really just be a bruise, not a hickey like he fears, Cain’s skin is smoke-dark like all the colonials, and Abel’s not experienced enough to tell for sure. It has to be a bluff, he’d know if Cain was cheating on him, but there’s nothing between them to call it cheating. He’s just a piece of ass, a willing and pliable fuck, something for Cain to rut against because Abel’s a slut on his knees begging for it. He just wanted someone’s dick so badly, but Cain is so wild and unpredictable it scares him at times. It scares him, because of the way his heart races and clenches and aches with the thought of the lean, dark, dangerous fighter.

Abel’s nearing his breaking point. He can feel it like a palpable scar, like the line of his mouth, the line between anger and sorrow. He doesn’t want to break in front of Cain. Anything but that, he’d rather die than start sobbing from the reality of a poor life choice. He knew what he was getting into, but it doesn’t stop the wild feeling of hurt, the desperate sense of betrayal. He wants more than Cain will ever give and he knows it.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” He bites the accusation, clinging desperately to his anger. He won’t break down, not here, not now, not where Cain can see.

The fighter says nothing, for a moment. Glares, brow tightening, lips pursing, silent enough that the tension ebbs and breaks like an ocean tide. His hand lifts, combs his shaggy dark hair, falls limp. The intensity of his gaze terrorizes Abel. It’s something unfathomable and treacherous. He looks away, shrugs, excruciatingly casual as he sighs and says, “Because.”

It’s not much of an answer. Abel grabs hold of his fury with delightful relief, but Cain’s not done yet. Their eyes meet, hold, tangle, entwine. A flush starts at his chest and moves in either direction, heating his cheeks and tightening his balls. Damn Cain for making him feel this way, damn himself for letting it happen.

Cain huffs air, spiteful, angry, bracing. “Because, idiot. Because I fucking love you, okay? You stupid piece of shit, you drive me so crazy it’s got to be love.”

Abel doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he should say, what’s expected of him to say, but he’s horrified and terrified and there’s a weak-kneed shaking that confuses him. And he’s still mad, because Cain’s a fucking liar, and every word from his mouth is poison, and Abel’s so scared of the way the conversation has twisted that he’s got to stop it.

“Fuck you,” he says. His hands form two small, furious fists at his side. If he knew how to throw a punch and have it stick he’d do so. Last time he’d tried was the first time Cain confused him with hard lust and bewildering comfort. He always wants to cuddle after sex, wrapped around Abel tight until the small hours of the night when he slips away for whatever training the fighters endure. Abel’s not sure what he wants anymore. He’s not sure of anything. It’s Cain who does it to him, who makes him feel like this. It isn’t love, not this heart-race, sweaty-palm, sideways-tilted sense of things. It isn’t love, the way his cock stiffens and aches for the cruel sneer of Cain’s mouth. It’s just that he wants to get fucked, that he wants to be pinned and taken, gasping for more, begging for the heat and pressure and release. He’s hard just thinking about it.

And just because his heart’s racing and his dick’s throbbing doesn’t mean that Cain gets to own him, heart and soul, that he believes that Cain even understands something like  _love_.

Something wild passes over Cain’s eyes, here and gone like a shadowed flash. He’s feral, uncontrollable, just as terrifying and exotic as Abel always feared. His mouth curls with cruelty. “Fuck you? Oh, princess. You shouldn’t tease me like that.” Nothing of his earlier hesitance or frustration is evident in the way he stalks forward, lithe and dangerous like a panther, some wild cat of the jungle, all pounce and growl. He captures Abel in his hands and folds the harshness of his mouth over the scarred lips. That mark of possession, the mark of their bond, it heats and flares as Abel puts up a token resistance.

Cain nips at his throat, half teasing, half promising, hands hot and eager. Abel retreats against the smashed together lump of their bedding. He goes down, half falling, half willing, Cain on top and shredding away the layers between them.

“I fucking hate you,” snarls Cain. His teeth graze against the navigator’s pale shoulder. He is danger, desire, molten pleasure as he hands find all the places on Abel that bring pain and pleasure alike. His breath races, his heart pounds, Abel surrenders without a fuss because this is all he wants with every shameful secret flaring like a beacon to be exploited.

And Cain knows it. His dark eyes gleam. “I fucking love you,” he says. The words are interchangeable, spoken alike,  _I hate you, I love you, I’m going to fuck you_. Abel wraps his arms around Cain’s neck. If this is hate, if this is love, if this is the way it’s going to be – Abel stiffens and moans throated approval as Cain’s mouth finds the most sensitive parts of him. It’s all the same to him, no matter what labels they use or what words pass between them, it’s all heat and pleasure, it’s all the same to Abel.

And after, when Cain wraps over him with the same uncharacteristic need, Abel’s heart pounds with such violence it’s like a delicate form of abuse.  _I love you, I hate you, I’m going to fuck you_. Cain nuzzles at the back of his neck, warm and gentle, the strangeness of it a particular kind of ache.


End file.
